


Collision of Words

by OceanSpiral, Superbeans



Category: Pocket Monsters | Pokemon - All Media Types
Genre: Asperger's Syndrome, Gen, autistic spectrum
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-23
Updated: 2017-07-25
Packaged: 2018-10-23 04:17:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 12,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10712019
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OceanSpiral/pseuds/OceanSpiral, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Superbeans/pseuds/Superbeans
Summary: 16 year old Reuben is just like any other teenage boy - obsessed with Pokemon and desperate for a journey of his own. But, diagnosed with high functioning Asperger's it was never going to be easy. Until he meets Modesty, an aspiring writer looking for inspiration. The two team up to document their journey through Kalos in their own unique words.





	1. Prologue

Modesty gave me this book. She said that any time anything interesting ever happened to me, I was to write it down here. In my own words, like what a teacher tells you to do. When I told her that nothing interesting happened to me, she just laughed. Nothing interesting happens to me because I'm not an interesting person.

Modesty is an interesting person though. Her name is an adjective. And I expected Modesty to be like her name. For anyone who does not know, Modesty means

"Modesty: noun.  
1\. The quality or state of being unassuming in the estimation of one's abilities.  
2\. The quality of being relatively moderate, limited, or small in amount, rate or level."

I don't think Modesty is a modest person. She is a lot of lovely things, but modest is not one of them. She is loud and she talks quickly and she laughs a lot. She knows what she is good at and she likes to talk about it.

Sometimes Modesty is so loud and excitable, I think her body cannot contain all of her grinning and giggling. And her face moves so quickly and changes so much that sometimes I cannot always tell what she means. But my father told me that was normal and had nothing to do with me. Women were just like that. What they say and what their faces show weren't always the same.

She called herself an oxymoron and didn't try to explain what the word meant. I like people who use long words. I don't want to sound like a gloater but I know lots of even more complicated words than Modesty does. Like 'ameliorate' and 'vicissitudes'. It makes me feel proud of myself because it is Modesty's job to use big, flowery words.

One time, when she left it alone, I opened her book and read it.

"I gazed into the still water and froze, drowning in a shadow of myself. Far out, even farther than I could see, the ocean looked like a broken mirror, iridescent light glimmering under the light of the stars."

Writers have to write like that. I can't write like that. I told Modesty I can't write like that. But she said it didn't matter. That all I had to do was write things down like I saw them. So I did. On the first page of this book, I wrote all about how I got up in the morning, how I went to the toilet, how I had my breakfast and how I fed Gadget.

When she looked through it, I paid close attention to what her face did. While she read, she had a little frown and a little frown usually means someone is angry. But when she looked up, she was smiling and she said "Writers have to be selective. We don't need to write down lots of little things that don't matter."

"But those things matter to me. Because I can't start my day right if things aren't done like that." I argued.

I thought Modesty would get mad. A lot of people get mad at me; sometimes it is my fault and sometimes it is not. Father yells a lot. Mother sighs and turns away. My brothers just laugh and make unkind comments. But Modesty is very patient. Modesty smiles and says "It's okay" even when she's angry.

I have written a page and a half in this book now and I have not even introduced myself. I wish I could go back and scrub out the rest and start again but I can't. So I will do it now.

My name is Reuben. It means 'behold, a son' in Hebrew. A 'Reuben' is also a type of sandwich. I live in Lumiose City, in Kalos. I turned 16 three weeks and four days ago. And I was diagnosed with Asperger's syndrome when I was eight years old. I am an 'other'.

Sometimes I feel like an alien trapped on Earth.

I am not an expert on Asperger's syndrome. But I am an expert on me and I have Asperger's syndrome. In a nutshell, (This is a thing that Modesty uses. A metaphor. 'In a nutshell' does not mean you are literally in a nutshell. It just means summing up) having this means that I struggle to understand people correctly. I have very strong interests and I will talk about them even if people don't want me to. There are many more things I could say, but Modesty says "Show, not tell." Which is a problem for me because I don't have a lot of imagination.

The doctors say I am a "high functioning" Asperger's. This is a fancy way of saying that I can do all the things that a normal person can do – I can cook a bit, I can clean, I can do the shopping, I can take care of myself for the most part. And I can take care of Gadget.

I was 8 years, 7 months and 19 days old when I got Gadget. It was a cloudy day and I had pancakes for breakfast but Mother burned them because she was nervous about me meeting Gadget. Gadget is a Skiddo. He has a white and brown face and he smells of carrots. Carrots are his favourite food. He eats three bags a day.

I don't like carrots.

Gadget likes to run. He can jump really high, and he can carry me. I trained him very well. I once made it all the way to the next street while riding him. Mother was not very happy with me that day.

I like Gadget better than I like most people. That's another thing that makes Asperger's people different. I like Pokemon in general better than I like most people. Pokemon have few emotions – they are happy, they are sad or they are hungry. And it is very easy to tell which one they are feeling. Even when they don't have a face. There are Pokemon like that. Staryu and Starmie don't have faces. Numbers 120 and 121 in the Pokedex. Right after Seaking and right before Mr Mime. Both Water types, though Starmie becomes Psychic.

I like Pokemon better than humans because sometimes it is very difficult to tell what people are thinking. Modesty said it is important, when you are a writer especially, to be able to tell how people talk through their bodies. If you raise your eyebrows, it can mean everything from "I am upset with you" to "I am confused" or even "I am worried" and it can be difficult to work out which one is which.

That's why I like Gadget. Gadget is either happy or hungry.

People think Aspies do not experience things as strongly as ordinary people do. But I don't think that is true. Not for me. All my senses are much stronger. Touch, taste, smell, sight and sound. Things become overwhelming when there is too much noise or light, or bad textures or smells. Sometimes my mind will go blank or sometimes I will get so frustrated that I cannot think of anything else.

Sometimes I don't want to be around anyone apart from Gadget. Sometimes I can't make my mouth say what my head is feeling. Sometimes it feels like I am playing one of those crane games you get at funfairs and video arcades – I can see the words and feelings I want, but the hook always misses them.

But Modesty said this will help. Both her and me. And I like to help people.

So that is why I am writing this.

Modesty said I should never give away the plot in the first chapter. But this is my story and I'm supposed to write it the way I see things. So this is my story of how Modesty and I went on a journey through Kalos.


	2. Chapter 2

Like most things in her life, Modesty Glenn's passion for the written word came from a deep-rooted desire to prove someone wrong.

A natural over-achiever through childhood, the hastily stamped "B – could do better!" on her preliminary English exam at age thirteen seemed a challenge. An invitation. And so vexed by the teacher's lapse in judgement, she stole a copy of the paper and took it home. The creative writing question was an enigma – untouched by every student and spurned in favour of the discursive or autobiographical. It was bound to get her noticed.

**Q9. Write a short story using the following opening:**

**She caught her breath, then anxiously took to the stage. Blinding light. Deafening applause. She began…**

And words that were originally intended to impress, to have them reconsider and amend, flew from her in an ease she had never experienced. Words put together in limitless combinations to evoke, arouse, inspire. It was a wicked thrill. Seconded only to the burst of pride she felt when she was awarded an (unofficial) A+ and had her story read out to the entire class.

Countless stories followed. It was not long until she graduated from piles of sloppy notepads full of crossings-out to the crispness and clarity of the word document. But there would always remain a fondness for the hand-written story. The copy that seemed most alive, the words at their most organic. A fondness only compounded by the present handed to her on her fourteenth birthday – a thick, leather-bound writing book with more pages than she could realistically hope to fill.

From then on, she was Journal Girl. An inventive nickname, she supposed, brash and to the point. Certainly one of the more unique she had experienced.

She would escape the nickname soon. The teasing and the misunderstandings. She was going to university next summer – well, assuming her grades came in positive. To study English literature. Her mother and father were, for the most part, supportive, although her mother often fretted "What kind of job will you get with a degree in _English_?"

"There are plenty of jobs in advertising, publishing, and journalism." Modesty replied primly. "Just to name a few." She didn't dare admit to her mother the real reason she wanted this course – it came with the opportunity to specialise in creative writing.

The only problem was, getting to join the creative writing course required an extensive portfolio of creative work. And as Modesty pored over the jotters and journals of long-finished stories and half-discarded pieces, she found herself distinctly overwhelmed at the prospect of choosing between them.

"You realise," her favourite English teacher, Mrs Walker, told her kindly as they sat in her classroom over lunchtime. "Lecturers see hundreds, maybe even thousands of creative writing pieces every year. And there will be some that will be better than yours – because a lot of people going off to university will be much older than you."

"It doesn't mean they're better than me, though."

"Not at all. But these people who are maybe in their late twenties or thirties will have had a lot longer to develop their styles and their voices. That's just the way that it is."

Modesty concluded her teacher was just trying to scare her. But as she picked over a few select pieces, she noticed a problem.

Everything was the same. While written well, excluding some minor exposition that was unavoidable in shorter pieces, the formula was basically the same. A main character, considered "weird" in some way, who had gone on a journey of self-discovery and proved their opposition wrong. Bonus points for a tacked on romance that had very little to do with anything. Modesty read through them all with dwindling interest.

When she set the last one down, she knew. She knew if there was to be any hope of impressing anyone enough to get her onto the program, she needed something new. Something completely out of her comfort zone. Something impressive.

And she needed it fast.

She would find out about her acceptance to university judged on her academic prowess by the middle of summer. And if she cleared that hurdle, they would ask her for a portfolio a few weeks later. All in all, four months.

A needle-shot of panic burst within her and her breath came in short, accelerated gasps. Ribs heaving, her chest bound by an invisible rope, it was a struggle to keep her lungs inflated. Fear rose like ice-water, creeping higher and higher until it filled her mouth and nose. For a few minutes, she was unreachable.

Then something crashed through her bedroom door. Her lap was suddenly warm and full. Burying her face into short, thick fur, she took as deep of a breath in she could. She smelled the sweet, lingering scent of berries and the earthy saltiness of nuts. It was calming. And the little Pokemon in her arms kneaded on her trembling arms until she eventually stilled.

"It's okay." She raised her head and painted on a smile. "I'm alright now."

"De! De-denne!" Her tiny Pokemon cheered.

"I'm just a bit stressed…" she said, pushing her hair back from her face. "I think it's time we went on one of our walks. Don't you think?"

"Denne!"

Grabbing her coat and bag, she lingered outside the front door. It was worryingly silent for a house of six. "Mum!" she yelled. "I'm going for a walk!"

Her voice came drifting down from somewhere upstairs. "Alright! Make sure you take Poppy with you!"

"I always do!" Modesty hollered back and Poppy cheeped on her shoulder to verify.

Her mother sounded distant. A hint of stress hanging on her words. But with three other children under the age of eight to look out for, sounding stressed was an occupational hazard. Tonight was bath night; the one night a week when Modesty's three siblings were forced to tolerate each other as they were stuffed into the tiny tub and washed with little care to the cries of "He's kicking me!" and "Mama, there's soap in my eye!"

It was still light outside, even for the late hour. Spring had pushed its way through the last of winter's protests. Warm and clammy after only a few minutes of walking, Modesty shrugged off her jacket and carried it under her arm.

Along the boulevards and avenues, Modesty squeezed her way through hordes of late-night commuters and shoppers. No matter what time of the day or night, Lumiose City seemed alive. Built up of buildings and people that all breathed together. A collective heartbeat of traffic lights and footsteps, a pulse that never weakened, a rhythm that she always knew and a pattern her feet always obeyed.

There was a plaza nearby – about ten minutes' walk on a good day. Fifteen on a day she was dawdling. She sat on a bench near a fallen tree and allowed her quivering legs a chance to rest. She always came here, to this exact spot, when she needed inspiration. Or a break from everything. Or even both. This place had never failed her before. She prayed it wouldn't now.

Poppy hopped down from her shoulder as Modesty dug into her bag for the heavy journal she had been given four years ago. Unblemished apart from her name on the inside page, it was crying out to be filled. She had wanted to save it for her greatest work – her magnum opus – the piece that would propel her to the next stage of accomplishment.

When she put her pen to the paper, she faltered. A sentence bled into two, then three, but then stopped. She read it over and was ashamed of how bland it sounded, how she could already tell it was going the way of every other story she had written.

She closed the book with a snap and dropped her head into the sieve of her hands. She didn't realise she was moaning out loud until Poppy put a tiny paw on her leg. "Denne?"

"Sorry, girl." She apologised, feeling a blush blossom on her cheeks. "I'm just… stuck. And I don't normally get stuck. Normally it's just so easy; I think of something and the words just come out and they keep coming out. But now there's nothing."

She scribbled over the opening passage, hard, dark lines that pressed into the following page.

"Denne…" Poppy's tail drooped.

Modesty chuckled and tickled her under the chin. "Don't worry. It's just a creative funk. I'll get there. I dunno, maybe… Maybe I just gotta look at this in a different way from before."

"Denne!" Poppy chirped, bouncing up and down. "De! De!"

Modesty smiled. Poppy had the exact knack to making her feel better – and could do more with a chirp, a cheep and a well-meaning nuzzle than the vast majority of her family and teachers could do. She pulled Poppy in for a cuddle, stroking her bristly fur.

"De-De-De-De-De!" Poppy trilled. It was if she was cheering for her, encouraging her, saying "You can do it! You can do it!"

"Yeah." A smile tugged at the corner of Modesty's mouth. "I'll get there. I will. I know I can do it."

* * *

 

"Useless." _Thud_. "Can't do it." _Thud_. "Stupid empty head." _Thud. Thud. Thud_.

"Mozzie, why are you doing that?"

Modesty raised her head from her desk and eyeballed her youngest brother standing in the doorway of her bedroom. "You wouldn't understand, Roman." She said with another half-hearted thud of her forehead into the wood.

"Mama said your brains will fall out if you do that." Roman imparted, before toddling off back down the hallway.

"Yeah, Mama says a lot of things…" Modesty rubbed the welt in the centre of her forehead and prayed that it wouldn't leave a mark.

Her last few days of school had passed in a blur of exams, stress and more than the occasional confrontation with her fellow pupils. And now, with nothing else to do but wait for the impending arrival of her grades and stress over the creative block, her anxiety was manifesting itself in peculiar ways. She had been banished from the living room after getting a hold of her siblings' coloured pens and drawing on herself; prompting her youngest brother Casper to start covering himself, and any available surface, in scribbles because "Mozzie do it". After working through pacing, organising her books in order of size and face-planting her desk, she was beginning to run out of ideas.

Her stepfather, Art, poked his head in an hour later while Modesty was absentmindedly chucking wadded up balls of paper into the bin across the room.

"Your mum says you're having trouble, kiddo."

"Nope. I'm good."

"Uh-huh." Art raised one particularly hairy eyebrow. Modesty had always thought his eyebrows looked like two Scatterbug convalescing when he furrowed his brow – the salt and pepper colouring of his hair only made it funnier. "Then explain what you're doing?"

Modesty paused before throwing the next ball. "I dunno," she eventually said, lobbing the wad with more intensity than she meant.

"Look, I wouldn't even mind that much if your aim wasn't terrible." The ball bounced off the rim of the wastepaper bin and rolled away under one of the wardrobes as if to illustrate his point. "But this isn't good for you, kiddo. It's the first day of your summer holiday and you've spent it cooped up in here doing… Arceus only knows."

"I'm _trying_ to write for my portfolio."

"I'm aware. But my point is, kiddo, you're going round in circles. Not to mention, upsetting your mother with all the noise that's coming out of here. Yvie woke up from her nap three times. And she's cranky."

"Uh-huh." Modesty threw another ball. It went spiralling upwards and hit the light fixture.

"Look, why don't you take a walk? I know that always helps me when I get stuck with my own writing."

"Ugh. You write _manuals_ , Art. It's completely different." All the same, she swung her legs around and stood up. "But I get your point. I'll go." She so desperately wanted to add "At least it'll get you off my back" but didn't dare to.

Instead, she allowed her frustration to vent as soon as she slammed the front door behind her. Stomping down the paved roads, journal in hand, Modesty headed for her usual spot. However, when she saw it was occupied, her mood soured further.

In an otherwise empty plaza, a sandy haired boy with a Skiddo by his side sat right in the middle of the bench. She felt a surge of anger. While it wasn't unusual to see the bench in use by someone else, and she wouldn't normally dare intrude, something about the way this boy sat right in the middle, as if to discourage anyone else to sit near him, spurred her rage further and she marched straight up to him.

"Excuse me," she asked, as sweetly as she could muster. "May I sit here?"

The boy kept his gaze firmly downward. His eyes did not even flicker in acknowledgement of her presence. His leg began to bounce and the Skiddo bleated softly. Modesty waited, wondering if perhaps he didn't hear her.

"…Mother says I'm not supposed to talk to strangers."

Modesty blinked. "Look, no offence, but I don't actually want to talk to you. I just want to sit here."

"I don't like people sitting next to me."

"Right. Sorry to hear that." Modesty frowned, before squeezing herself in the tiny space between herself and the boy.

The boy let out a noise that sounded like an angered squeak and scooted to the farthest end of the bench. "I don't like people sitting next to me!"

"It's a free country." Modesty remarked, pulling out a notebook and opening it to a page at random.

The boy was silent for several minutes as Modesty read through an old, abandoned project from several years ago – a fantasy story called "The Man in the Moon". Engrossed in scanning the pages for ideas or inspiration for another project, she did not notice the boy leaning over.

"You cannot put a man in the moon. Not unless he is an astronaut. And there are not many astronauts out there."

"You can read that from here?"

"My eyesight is very good."

"…yeah. I can see that."

"A man cannot go on the moon unless he is an astronaut." Modesty detected a slight hint of urgency in the boy's voice at his reiteration.

"I know. It's not about an astronaut though. It's about a fisherman."

"Then why is it called "The Man in the Moon"?"

Modesty closed her book, wishing she had never spoken up. "It's just a story."

"I have never heard that story before."

"I would hope not. I wrote it."

"You wrote about a fisherman who lives on the moon?"

"No, the fisherman doesn't live on the moon…!" Modesty let out a strangled groan. "It's just symbolic. It doesn't _actually_ happen."

"Oh. I don't like books like that."

"No-one's asking you to."

"I like books about real life things. Like explorers and scientists who discover things. Because then I know that those things can actually happen. Fishermen who live on the moon cannot actually happen."

"I already _told_ you, the fisherman doesn't live on the moon!" Modesty cried. "If you would read it, then you would understand."

"I don't think I would like to read a story that doesn't make sense."

"Well, then, you must lead a very boring life!"

The boy nodded. "Yes."

"Yes what?

"I have a boring life. Nothing interesting happens."

"…oh." Modesty glanced across at the boy again. He wasn't looking up at her. His gaze was only occasionally moving from the Skiddo to his feet and then back again. Despite her annoyance, there was something inside her that was curious to know more. "Hey. What's your name?"

"Mother says I shouldn't tell strangers my name."

"But we won't be strangers if we know each other's names."

"But why would I tell a stranger my name?"

"Because it's a friendly thing to do? I don't know. Having a chat isn't bad, is it?"

"I don't do chatting."

"Then what are you doing now?"

The boy went quiet. Modesty smiled at the small victory. "I'm Modesty. Modesty Glenn." After a moment of silence, she added. "There. Now we aren't strangers anymore."

But the boy wasn't relinquishing. He was bouncing both legs up and down and his face looked shiny and red. The Skiddo at his side bumped him with its head. Modesty reached out and timidly touched the Skiddo.

The boy looked at her. Yet, his gaze did not quite meet hers. "Please don't touch my Skiddo. He isn't yours."

"I'm sorry." Modesty retracted her hand. "Your Skiddo is lovely. Does he have a name?"

"Gadget."

"Hi Gadget," Modesty cooed, resisting the urge to pat him again. "He looks very well-trained. Do you have many Pokemon?"

"Just Gadget. Mother says I'm not allowed to keep any more."

"Do you always listen to what your mother says? How old are you anyway?"

"I am sixteen years, two weeks and two days old."

"Wow." Modesty chuckled. "Okay, I guess that makes me… seventeen years, eight months and… Arceus… okay, I can't do the maths properly. I'm not very good at maths."

"I am." The boy replied. "I like maths. Numbers are straightforward. You can't misunderstand them like you can with words. They don't mean something they aren't. Not even when you do algebra and equations and the numbers become letters. Words can mean everything they are and everything they aren't."

"I… never thought about it like that." Modesty replied, oddly humbled and awed by the boy's peculiar description. "That's… that's really interesting. Thank you."

"Why? I didn't do anything."

"I don't know. It's just… I think you just gave me an idea for something."

"An idea for what?"

"For something to write. Hold on a moment."

The pen was moving, scratching clumsily across a spare page. Minutes passed. The boy didn't even move through the whole time she worked. When she finished, she held the book out and spoke the passage aloud.

_"Words, when I am with you, fall like confetti strewn over newlyweds. Somehow so hopeful and full of all of life's joys. Yet apprehensive. And possessing a power they are too modest to admit." She paused for effect, allowing the impact of the words to settle in the air. "But they are also brittle. Paper-thin and inconsequential. Too easily stirred and driven away by the power of the wind. They leave me grasping for something tangible."_

Gadget the Skiddo bleated but the boy was silent. "What does it mean?"

"Well…" Modesty was surprised. "I… I guess it means what you said a few minutes ago. Words can mean everything and nothing at the same time."

"Oh."

There was a familiar itch in her fingers. The one that could only be satiated with the outpour of words on a page. She stood up, gathered her books in her arms and glanced back at the boy and his Skiddo.

"I have to go now. I have a lot of things I have to do. Will… will you ever be here again?"

"I am here every day. I walk Gadget when it gets to five o'clock. Sometimes again at seven o'clock if he gets excitable. We take a break here and then we go to the shop at the other end of the boulevard. We buy lots of sweets but I can't tell Mother."

"What? Every day?"

"Every day."

"O…okay then," Modesty stammered. Her mind was awash with ideas, disorganised thoughts, half-formed ideas begging to be manipulated and formed into something. "Look, I really really need to go. But I'll see you again, yeah?"

"If you are here and I am here, then yes. You probably will."

She turned to take her leave before another thought struck her. "Kid. Please tell me, what's your name? Come on, you helped me with my inspiration. I'd like to at least know what your name is."

The boy hesitated. "Reuben. My name is Reuben. Reuben Bennett. Reuben, like the sandwich."

"Reuben, like the sandwich." Modesty noted with a grin. "Alright! I'll see you again!"

She was off, half the sentence lost to her movement. She ran determinedly down the familiar boulevard, zig-zagging between strangers and filled with emotions and concepts she wasn't quite sure how to put into words just yet.


	3. The second day

This is the second chapter of my book.

It takes place on a Saturday, on the second day of the summer holidays.

It is also the second day I met Modesty.

This is the third time I have used the word 'second'. (Now it is the fourth)

I decided not to write about the first time because introductions to things are very difficult to write. They require setting the scene. And establishing character. And this is my book so I will write about the things I want.

Modesty and I did not get along very well at first. She didn't talk about anything interesting. I'm not really interested in fishermen who live on the moon, or confetti on newlyweds I do not know. But she did seem interested in Gadget. Gadget was very friendly, and let her stroke him.

After the first time, I wondered if she had Pokemon. If she did, we would actually have something to talk about.

The day after I met her, and when I had bought my strawberry laces and fizzy cola bottles and pellets for Gadget, we sat at the bench on the plaza. And then Modesty came. She was out of breath. Like she had been running. I don't understand why people run. Not unless they have something chasing them.

(I have been chased six times. I have counted. The last time was by a Gligar.)

Modesty sat next to me again. I don't like people sitting next to me. My teachers and the doctor and the psychologist I saw say that it is one of my _behavioural problems._

I don't like small talk because it is talk that has no purpose. It does not accomplish anything apart from making me feel awkward and under pressure to say something without making the other person cross or upset. But Modesty likes small talk. She commented three times on the weather. It was sunny the whole time. Why do people talk about the weather when you already know what the weather is like?

Modesty had a cake with her when she arrived. It had white icing and thirty seven sprinkles that came in red and blue. She did not offer me any. I found small talk even harder while I was waiting for her to offer me the cake.

She did not eat the cake herself. She kept it in the pink and white striped paper from the bakery. I wondered if I was supposed to ask if I could have some of the cake. Not knowing what to say or do is another one of my _behavioural problems_.

Modesty asked a lot about my day and what I do during my day. I don't know how many times I said that I do not do much during my day. She kept asking. I kept looking at the cake. She kept not offering it.

Just when I thought I would have to snatch it from her hands, she put it down and took out a Pokeball. It was an old Pokeball. The red was faded and covered in scratches. And stickers.

The stickers had nothing to do with Pokemon. I counted four. One was a cartoon flower. One was a clock. The hands were set to a quarter to six, which was when Gadget and I would leave to go home. There was a little key sticker at the back, and a smiley face on the trigger button.

I found out that Modesty kept three Pokemon. The Pokemon that lived in the Pokeball with the stickers was a little Dedenne. It was even smaller than a normal Dedenne. By approximately four centimetres. Its coat was much shinier than normal Dedenne. She named it Poppy. A poppy is a flower. It has nothing to do with Dedenne.

Dedenne is my ninth favourite Electric-type. My favourites go:

1\. Jolteon

2\. Luxray

3\. Ampharos

4\. Electabuzz

5\. Manectric

6\. Chinchou (NOT LANTURN)

7\. Minun (NOT PLUSLE)

8\. Raichu

9\. Dedenne

Modesty also kept a Whismur. The Whismur lived in a Dive Ball. This was strange because Whismur cannot Dive. The Whismur was named Daisy, which is also a flower, and it had a notch in one ear. She also wore little earmuffs. Whismur is not even in my Top 50 Normal types. To save paper, I won't list them. But Farfetch'd is at number 47. That shows how much I dislike Whismur.

Her third Pokemon was Solosis. Modesty said she named it Golgi. She said it was the only thing she remembered from high school biology. A Golgi is a cell organelle that is responsible for manufacturing, storing and shipping cellular products. Like shopkeepers. I like Biology because Biology relates to everything in the world.

I liked Golgi. He was very quiet and sat very still while Poppy and Daisy and fought over bits of Modesty's cake. When Golgi had the cake, he absorbed it straight into the cytoplasm and then further into the organelle. I could see it breaking apart and fizzing away into nothing. Then I didn't mind if I didn't have cake because I got to see how Golgi processed it.

I asked Modesty "How long have you trained Pokemon?"

She replied "For about seven years."

I asked her "Did you ever go on a Pokemon journey?"

"No." she said. She told me she 'sucked' at Pokemon training.

'Sucked' is another metaphor. It does not mean you are sucking something. It means you are really bad at whatever you're doing.

Modesty then asked me if I had ever been on a Pokemon journey and I got very upset. When I get upset I go very quiet. I feel dizzy and sick because everything seems so much brighter and angrier. Like when you tune a TV and it gets noisy, and the colours go too red or too orange. People who know me know that when I am upset and quiet I want to be left alone so I can feel safe and calm. But Modesty does not know me.

I got cross with her and shouted. I shouted for her to go away. Then she went quiet.

She apologised. Once, then again, when I said nothing to her. I do not like apologising so I did not apologise back. Mother tells me I have to apologise when I get cross with people. But when they are the ones that make me cross I do not see why I have to apologise to them.

Modesty stood up. She whistled for her Pokemon. Dedenne, Whismur and Solosis. Modesty said that she should go and asked if she could see me again. Maybe when I was not so upset.

I said I would like to see Golgi again.

And then she said she would go home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One of the main things we're trying to put across is how Asperger's sufferers - or those on the autistic spectrum- relate to others around them, be it physically, socially, or practically. We'd like to think we're doing a good job on that?


	4. Chapter 4

Modesty started with a cereal bar, sneaked out of the cupboard normally reserved for her younger siblings' healthy, all-organic snacks.

Gnawing at the bar (was it really raspberry yoghurt flavoured? It tasted the same as every other brand – an uninspiring beige, like you were chewing cardboard), she sat at her desk. Last night's work had been left strewn over any available surface, abandoned in favour of finally crawling into bed long after midnight. She sifted through the remnants, searching for something, anything, worth continuing. But as always, a new morning was the harshest critic Modesty knew, and she cringed in embarrassment reading the paltry offerings.

A slow hour passed. Modesty doodled hearts and eyes and flowers on a piece of paper stamped with the word "Immortality" – a writing prompt copied from a blog online. Her eyes, heavy and red, from the few hours sleep she was able to claw back, were in serious danger of drooping entirely.

Then, a sharp rapping at her door sent her head juddering upwards. Hands flailing, several sheets of paper fluttered to the ground. Peering up through her unbrushed hair, she made out the figure of her seven year old brother Gideon.

"Wh…what do you want?" Yes, it was only her brother, and he was still too young to really care about what she did, but she felt a furious blush darken her cheeks all the same.

Gideon hesitated at the doorframe. He cast a worried glance behind him before timidly asking "Can… can I come in for a little bit?"

Modesty's automatic response was normally "No, I'm busy" or an empty promise of "Maybe later", but after a closer inspection, she noticed a tell-tale redness to her brother's cheeks. She let out a sigh. Gideon wasn't a crybaby by nature. Not like Roman, who once had thrown himself on the floor in a sobbing mess upon realising "Mum" was not their mother's real name.

She sat up a little straighter in her chair. "What's happened?"

Gideon sniffed. "Roman… Roman was being mean to me." He stammered out. "M-mama got mad and told me to go away."

"And why was Roman being mean to you?"

"Cos he's always mean to me!" Gideon wailed. "He took my toy Pokeballs away! He said they were his but they're not his! I got them for my birthday and he can't have them! He doesn't even know how to make them open!"

Modesty groaned. How she yearned for the politics of children – when all you had to worry about were minor disagreements that were habitually forgotten about, or soothed with a clever turn-of-phrase. "Gideon…" she swivelled around in the chair and met her brother's gaze. "Roman is only five, remember? He's not good at sharing things yet. We have to be patient with him more because he doesn't understand things like we do. And it's our job to be more patient, isn't it, because we're more grown up, aren't we?" she added with a wry smile.

Gideon considered this for a moment. "More… grown up than Roman. Am I?"

"Of course you are. You're seven. You're a big boy, aren't you?"

"Yeah!" Gideon grinned. "Roman's only five! He's a little boy! A little, little boy!"

"That's right." Modesty nodded. As always, it worked like a charm. "Now, come in if you're coming."

"Really?" Gideon's eyes shone.

"Hurry up before I change my mind," Modesty pretended to be stern, causing her little brother to run, giggling, across the room and launch himself on her unmade bed. He emerged from within a pile of giant plushies.

"Can I have Poppy to play with?" He said, nudging a bear off the edge of the bed with his toes.

"Oh, I don't know…" Modesty put her hand to her chin in an exaggerated movement. "Would you promise promise promise to be careful with her?"

"I promise promise promise!" Gideon chanted.

"Hmm… alright, then." She passed the Pokeball over. "Just be very very careful. Do you remember how to open it?"

"Of course! They let us play with other Pokemon in school last week!" Gideon puffed his chest out proudly. He grappled with the Pokeball, a bit too clumsily for Modesty's liking, before he eventually pushed down on the release mechanism.

With a flash of light, Modesty's sleepy Dedenne emerged on the bed. Yet the poor Pokemon didn't get a moment's peace before Gideon dived on her.

"Careful, careful." Modesty warned, although she wasn't really worried. Her Dedenne was one of the best natured Pokemon she had ever met. Boisterous, yes, and self-assured, but she had always been admirably patient with Modesty's younger siblings.

"I am, I'm being careful!" Gideon protested, giving Poppy another squish – although he was significantly gentler this time around. He let out a happy sigh as he nestled his face into Poppy's soft fur. "…Mozzie, I really really want a Pokemon of my own."

It was a sentiment her brother had been echoing since he could first form sentences. And every time he brought it up, it was almost instantly dismissed by her mother and step-father. Modesty glanced sympathetically at her brother. "You still have a lot of growing up to do, Gideon. You've gotta stay in school for a bit longer."

"I know, I know… But I don't think Mama and Daddy will let me go on a journey."

"You don't know that. Not for certain."

Gideon shook his head vehemently. "Mama said I have to go to university…"

"Well, there's nothing that says you can't go to university and be a Pokemon trainer. Lots of people do that."

"Yeah, people who want to." Gideon muttered traitorously, before looking up at Modesty with wide eyes. "I think the only time I'll ever get to be a Pokemon trainer is in those stories you used to make up…" he said sadly.

"Oh yeah…" Modesty smiled, a memory from years ago resurfacing in her mind. "Ace Trainer Gideon and his Marvellous Misadventures?"

"Yes, yes, yes!" Gideon cheered. "Mozzie, can't you please make up more of those stories? You used to tell me them all the time!"

"Oh, gee, Gideon, I can barely even remember how they all go…"

"Doesn't matter! Doesn't matter! You could start again!"

Modesty glanced at the pile of half-written sheets across her desk. The looming deadline of her creative writing portfolio was playing heavily on her mind. She hadn't even decided how many pieces to write – the criteria given to the interested students were infuriatingly vague. There wasn't even a recommended word count. And how long would it take to write her best ever pieces, proofread, edit, and form them into some sort of coherent collection? She felt a film of sweat form over her forehead.

"I can't, Gideon. I've got far too much work to do."

"Awwwww…."

Gideon looked like he was about to cry. Modesty felt shame prickle in the pit of her stomach. "Hey, tell you what?"

"Hm?" Gideon glanced upwards.

"I'll come in before you go to bed tonight, okay? I can't promise anything special, but maybe you and I can work on Ace Trainer Gideon and his Marvellous Misadventures together?"

Gideon's face broke out into a wild, wide-eyed grin. "Yeah! I'd like that!"

.-.-.

By the time the clock ticked around to half past four, an impatient Modesty could wait no longer. Carefully selecting a new writing pad and one of her best pens, she hollered "I'm going out now!" while halfway through the front door. Not even waiting for a response, she slipped out and began a brisk walk to the plaza.

She was early, that much she knew. But at least it gave her the chance to secure her seat – which she reclaimed from a particularly derpy looking Fletchling pecking at nothing between the wooden slats. Perching at the edge of the bench, she waited. Her notebook and pen, folded neatly in her lap, remained firmly in place. As minutes ticked by, the usual rush of commuters and businessmen picked up, skittering by in the humid afternoon heat.

Finally, at one minute to five, she spotted him through the clouds of people. She saw the Skiddo first. It skipped along, kicking out its back legs, but its eyes never deviated from staring up at its trainer. Reuben walked with a purposeful heavy stride. Flat-footed and awkward, he followed Skiddo through the crowds, keeping a huge berth from other people crossing his path.

When he looked up and saw Modesty sitting at the beach, he stopped right in his tracks. His gaze dropped directly to the ground. He remained rigid, his hand on Skiddo's back, completely ignoring the world still moving around him.

"Reuben," Modesty wriggled herself off the bench and tentatively approached the boy. "Hi... are you okay?"

Reuben still kept his eyes right on the ground. "You're sitting in my spot."

"No, I'm not. Not anymore at least. You and Gadget can sit down now if you want?"

Reuben barged straight past and sat down heavily in the centre of the bench. Modesty waited until he had settled himself down before she sidled up. After some consideration, she decided not to sit down next to him. Instead, she propped herself up by a nearby tree.

When she tried to speak, her voice was croaky. "How… how are you today?"

"I am fine."

She had never really noticed how robotic his speech was before now. Perhaps it was because he was nervous too? She waited for him to return the question, but he sat still and looked at his hands tightly clasped into his lap.

Modesty tried again. "So… what have you been doing today?"

Reuben was silent for a moment before taking a deep breath. "I got up at eight-fifty-seven, went to the toilet, had a shower, and I had breakfast but I didn't eat it all because Mother let my toast get too soggy and I don't like soggy toast. Then I played on my computer until one o'clock, then had lunch, then I played on my computer again, then Mother told me dinner was going to be late, so I came out with Gadget and then I met you here and now I'm sitting down talking to you."

"I… see." Modesty said, a little overwhelmed. "So, you've been busy then?"

"Not really." Reuben paused for a moment. "Do you have your other Pokemon with you?"

"Yeah, of course I do." Modesty flashed Reuben the belt strung with three Pokeballs. "I never go anywhere without them."

"I want to see Golgi."

"Golgi, huh?" Modesty unclipped the third Pokeball and passed it over to Reuben. "You seem to have taken quite a shine to him, huh?"

Reuben released the Pokemon from the Pokeball with no hesitation. No sooner had it burst out, the Solosis nestled itself into Reuben's lap. While Golgi had always been a quiet, solemn little creature compared to the balls of fluff and energy that were her Dedenne and Whismur, he seemed particularly calm, almost serenely so, with Reuben.

"I like Golgi." Reuben said briskly.

"I think he likes you too." Modesty said with a smile. She paused, hoping for a smile, a turn of the head, just something in means of acknowledgment from Reuben, but he barely even blinked. She looked down at her feet. "You know, it's strange for Pokemon to be so trusting of people that are essentially, well, strangers to them. That's not normally the case. It took weeks for my Pokemon to even let my baby sister anywhere near them."

"All Pokemon like me."

"Do they really? Every single one you've ever met?"

"Yes." There wasn't a trace of irony in Reuben's voice, just confidence. But it wasn't even the sort of cocky confidence she would have expected from a boy his age. It was an assured matter-of-factness, like one would get from reading a textbook. "All Pokemon like me."

"That must be a good thing. Having every single Pokemon ever liking you. I remember when I got Daisy, my Whismur. She didn't like me at all at first. She just kept screaming and screaming and screaming and it took me months for her to calm down. Same with Poppy. She was too good at trying to electrocute me at first. She's calmed down since, which is a good thing cos my little brothers really love her. And I—"

"You talk too much." Reuben interrupted.

"…I… talk too much?" Modesty blinked. Reuben's voice held no hint of frustration or annoyance. The delivery was so imperceptibly trite that Modesty wasn't quite sure if she should be angry with him. "I'm sorry." She relented after a few moments. "I'm a writer. It's kind of our jobs to ramble on."

Reuben said nothing. He was staring intensely into Golgi's transparent body. Letting out an exasperated sigh, Modesty leant further backwards into the tree and rested her eyes. A pleasant breeze had picked up, a Godsend on a hot day. She allowed her mind to wander, just briefly, beyond the confines of the big city, and sent it adrift somewhere far out at the crystal blue sea.

"Modesty!"

The voice cut through her soft daydream and she snapped her eyes open. She glanced to Reuben first, looking for an answer, but he was still staring down at Golgi.

"That man over there is shouting for you." he said stiffly.

Modesty looked upwards. Two young men were standing across the plaza from her, waving and shouting. She had to squint to properly recognise them as two of her former schoolmates, Nick and Josh. The sporty sort who shunned academia. She frowned in confusion. She couldn't remember an occasion she had even sat in the same classroom as them (they were in lower sets than she was) and the only memories she could dredge up involved a good deal of teasing and mockery, particularly of her grades. She felt a lump quickly form in her throat and her palms grow sweaty.

"H-hello." She stammered as the two boys stood in front of her. They were both easily a foot taller than her and years of practice on football and rugby teams had left them with impressive muscle tone. "What's… up?"

The two boys exchanged a look and a grin that didn't reach their eyes. "I heard from some of the other guys in our year that you're going off to university after summer."

"Uh… that's right, um… Josh." If she remembered right, the blonde one was Josh. At least she hoped so. "A-assuming I get grades and… get a portfolio sent out…" Her voice trailed off as the nervousness swelled up like a balloon. "D…do you guys have any plans for… now that we've left school?"

"I'm gonna drink a lot of beer and not go home for three days!" Nick interjected and he and Josh collapsed in braying laughter.

"I… I see." Modesty murmured. "Th-that wasn't what I mean, but okay."

"Hey, there's this totally bitchin' party going on downtown later tonight. MacKenzie's parents left her an empty house. You should swing by if you feel like it," Josh said with a wink.

"Uh… I'm very flattered, but why are you asking me?"

Nick elbowed Josh violently in the side. "You seemed like an interesting enough chick. Well, if you didn't have your head in those books all the damn time."

"Uh… thanks, I think." Modesty found herself wishing the boys would go away.

"So, you're in? The party?"

"I… I, uh…"

"Modesty, these men are making me frightened. Make them go away."

The boys rounded on Reuben, and he froze under their glare. Modesty cursed to herself. Why the hell did Reuben decide to get involved? She wasn't worried about embarrassment, Arceus knew she was good enough at embarrassing herself without anyone's help, but she definitely did not want any sort of trouble.

"Hey, Modesty." Nick's face was twisted in scorn as he looked down his nose at Reuben. "Who's the retard?"

"Hey!" Modesty took a step forward. Her patience utterly snapped, she was about to start yelling, unleashing as many nasty words as she could muster on him, but Reuben got there first.

He had no words. Just angered groaning that slowly escalated in pitch and volume until he was screaming with an intensity that had every single passer-by either shuffling on awkwardly or stopping to gawk.

"What the hell, man?" Nick cried. "What's this freak's deal?!"

"Reuben, calm down!" Modesty begged. She reached out her hand to Reuben's furiously shaking arm, but the second her fingertips made contact with him, he wrenched himself away and the screams got even louder.

Gadget the Skiddo suddenly bounded in front of Reuben. The Pokemon had its head bent down and was pawing at the ground, snorting angrily.

"What the hell is this Pokemon's problem?!" Nick swatted at the offending Skiddo.

"Don't touch my Skiddo!" Reuben bellowed.

"You little freak! Think you can screech at me, tell me what to do?!" Nick roared back, pulling out a black and gold patterned Pokeball. "Well, why don't you put your money where your big fat mouth is? Pancham! Go!"

Modesty had seen Nick's Pancham before. Nick was a self-appointed "ace trainer" and had always insisted on his Pancham accompanying him through the school grounds and corridors, despite the school's very firm rule against Pokemon being outside of their Pokeballs. Rumours had circulated he had even bested some of the teachers, whom had been battling for half, if not longer, of their lives.

"Don't think you're getting all the glory, Nick." Josh smirked, notching a Pokeball from his own belt and tossing it, almost nonchalantly near to Nick's Pancham. "Diggersby, let's go."

"Oh God…" Modesty backed away. "Reuben, don't. Don't even try it! These guys are good and with just Gadget, you won't win!"

But Reuben didn't reply. Modesty stared helplessly at his rigid back and glanced over at Golgi. She felt a shiver of resignation go through her body. Taking a deep breath to steady her nerves, she stepped forward to stand beside Reuben.

"Here. I don't know how much help I can be, but… Hey, if we die, at least we die together, right?" she joked.

"Do all writers say things that don't make sense?" came Reuben's deadpan reply.

"You don't know the half of it," Modesty chuckled as the battle erupted into life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's an update, for those interested. I know there's at least one of you. 
> 
> Thanks for reading, and all feedback is appreciated. :)


	5. Third Meeting

This is the account of the third time I met Modesty. Yes. Third time.

I know a boy at my school who they said had something called OCD. He had to do things in threes otherwise he would get very anxious and bang his head into a wall. And even then, if he did bang his head, he would have to bang his head three times otherwise he wouldn't have done it "right". And he would have to do it all over again.

Me and Gadget were on our afternoon walk. We went to the same bench we always went to, every day. I was feeling upset because my brother had been nasty to me and I had to shut myself in the airing cupboard for 26 minutes to calm down. Mother was not happy. She told me to get out of her sight for a while until dinner was ready.

Sometimes I think Gadget is like a seeing-eye Growlithe, but much much better. Because Gadget knows how to calm me down and keep me happy. Nobody else knows how to do that. Not even Mother.

Mother tries hard but sometimes she makes things worse. She often burns food. Or cooks it when I can't reach a save point. Or she cooks the wrong thing. Like Magikarp-fingers on a Miltank-steak day. Or mushrooms. Ever. Sometimes she gives the good food to my brothers. And sometimes she even gets Father to cook. But whenever I say anything to her, she yells at me "Cook it yourself then!" but then when I try, she gets even madder and I make mistakes and things get broken.

Sometimes I think people are annoying on purpose. Like the mother and daughter walked very very slowly in front of Gadget and me. I wanted to push past them or say "Excuse me, can I get by?" but just when I decided to say something, the daughter turned around and tried to play with Gadget!

But Gadget is good. He knows. So he bowed out of the little girl's way. Again and again until she got tired and I didn't have to scream at her to go away.

Gadget and I finally made it to the park. We were two minutes and thirty-seven seconds late. And Modesty was sitting in my spot.

She insisted on asking how I was, and what I had done today, so I told her. She thought I had been busy today, but I hadn't. It was just another day. I had levelled up my Warlock to level eighty seven, and found an extremely rare armour upgrade. But I didn't tell Modesty about this. I didn't want her to take my Warlock away.

Modesty kept insisting on small talk. Mother tells me that when people make an effort to talk to me, I need to make an effort to talk to them back. She uses words like "common courtesy" and "basic human decency". The doctor says it's "adhering to social norms". I know it is good and polite, but often I don't like doing it.

But Modesty does. So when some men appeared and started talking to Modesty and she stopped talking back, I got very worried. The men were tall and their eyes had anger in them. I got frightened and told Modesty to make them go away.

But Modesty wasn't very good at doing what I wanted.

I have trouble remembering what happens when I get angry. Everything gets very hot and very white and sometimes, it can be several hours afterwards, and people are shouting at me for doing something or saying something bad but I don't remember doing it or saying it.

It would be nice if writing it down helps to remember. Modesty said to me that if I have trouble remembering things, just to write a lot of nonsense until something comes to you and starts making more sense.

I don't know how to write nonsense. Nonsense to me is silly words. Like foggle. Or humollaper. Or mortortle (I like the last one because it sounds like Wartortle, and I like Wartortle. But not as much as I like Buizel). Nonsense is also words that mean nonsense. And they may or may not sound like nonsense. Like "claptrap" and "balderdash" and "buncombe". I wonder if the men that attacked Gadget knew what those words meant.

Gadget is a very good battler. I have been training him since I got him. The men had a Pancham and a Diggersby. Diggersby looks funny and it's bulky, but it is part Ground-type and Skiddo is a Grass-type so I knew we had the advantage right away. Pancham gets called cute a lot but it is a Fighting type and those are not often cute.

I was about to start the battle when Modesty stood up. She looked like she was shaking, but it was not cold enough for someone to be shaking. She said she wanted to help. But she distracted me and it meant I couldn't get the first move!

The Pancham hit out with a Karate Chop. But Gadget is fast, as well as strong, and he charged out of the way so quickly the Pancham nearly hit the tree. The men started yelling and the Pancham stumbled around like cartoon characters do when they're dizzy.

Gadget attacked quickly, hitting the Diggersby with a Seed Bomb and knocking it to the floor. Modesty told Golgi to do something, but all it did was bounce around like a battle wasn't even happening. So Gadget had to save her too, and stopped the Pancham from hitting Golgi. Gadget used Take Down, and hit the Pancham hard.

Diggersby jumped up and slapped Gadget but Gadget acted like nothing had even happened. He rolled away from the Diggersby, got behind both it and the Pancham and used Razor Leaf. The leaves cut Diggersby and Pancham lots and lots of times. Modesty started screaming, which hurt my ears.

But the Diggersby didn't get up again!

But Pancham was stirring. I had Gadget take it out with another Take Down. Gadget's attack sent it flying far, far away, sending its trainer running after it. And then the other man recalled his Diggersby, yelled something at Modesty, and went running after his accomplice.

Me and Gadget had won.

Modesty wasn't doing anything useful, and no one was saying anything, so I went home again.

It was about time for dinner anyway.


	6. Chapter 6

****Inspiration. That was what she needed.

Modesty drummed a pen on her desk and thought. And thought. Thought some more. Her thoughts were like prisoners, desperate to escape, but hemmed in by impossibly high walls.

Inspiration. It was what her stepfather called a "harsh mistress", but Modesty privately thought that was a rather sexist remark. Inspiration to her was just… irritating. Like a Meowth that meowed all day to be let out then wanted in straight away. Inspiration surfaced, without fail, at the most inopportune time. At a 3am trip to the bathroom. Trying to enjoy lunch in peace. Lathering her hair in the shower. Yet it would never come when she needed it to.

At this stage, however, she would settle for an irritating inspiration over none at all.

The document on her slightly battered laptop remained garishly white. She tapped out a few sentences, deleted them. Another few, deleted those too. Then wrote an entire half page of gibberish. Shutting down the document, she opened up an internet browser. Clicking through her Favourites tab, she pulled up Plotbunnys4Sale, a site she had frequented in her darkest moments. But there was nothing new on Most Recent and nothing even remotely interesting on any of the older pages.

Modesty groaned, dropped her pen and slumped down into her desk. It had crossed her mind, several times in the past few days, just to submit some of her existing work, put the whole thing out of her mind and actually enjoy the last few months of freedom she was going to have. She had a little under four months until the deadline. That was more free time than she had ever had. Was it really worth all this headache and stressing?

"Penny for your thoughts, sweetie?"

She hadn't even noticed her mum, Karen, hovering at the door. Her baby sister Yvie was perched on one hip and a pile of dirty washing was balanced on the other. As annoying as her mother could be, she couldn't deny she was a bit of a marvel.

Modesty offered her mother a wry smile. "I don't think a penny would cover it."

"Try me."

"But… you've got Yvie there. And the boys are probably causing a riot…" A timely crash from the living room only reinforced Modesty's worries.

A brief look of concern passed over her mother's face but she quickly waved it off. "Art can deal with it. I can spare five minutes for my favourite girl."

Modesty glanced at the sleeping Yvie with a raised eyebrow and her mother quickly corrected herself. "My favourite big girl."

"There's no point in telling you," Modesty turned her back fully on her mother. "It's not like you care. All you do is tell me that English and creative writing has no uses."

Karen sucked in air through her teeth. She crossed to her daughter's bed and sat herself down, carefully manoeuvring Yvie to a safe position. Folding her hands neatly in her lap, she spoke calmly to her daughter's turned back.

"Honey, you're a grown woman. You'll be going to university, taking care of yourself, although you've been doing that for years just fine."

"I guess." Modesty said stiffly. She didn't want to think about that. Her mother had tried her best, she knew that. But the memories were still bitter.

"You make your own decisions. It's my job to support them, whether or not I agree with them doesn't matter."

"I just… I just can't do this." Modesty finally admitted. It felt both freeing, and damning, to say it out loud. "My teacher told me that the people who judge the portfolios see thousands of them. How can I compete with them when my work is just the same old recycled crap?!" she coupled this with a weak thump on her desk.

"Honey, don't bang the desk…"

"Sorry." She rolled her eyes, not sorry in the slightest. "Look, it doesn't matter. I just can't get inspired. Even in this massive city, there's nothing here that can inspire me."

There was silence. Karen chewed on her lip. "Maybe… maybe then you need to go somewhere away from Castelia City."

Modesty looked up through her hair. She managed only an ineloquent "…huh?"

"Art and I were actually thinking about it the other day." Karen traced the flowers on her daughter's bedspread. "You've had Pokemon for years. You'll be going to university so you'll need the experience of looking after yourself completely, you know, budgeting, travelling, all that crap. And of course, with…circumstances with us, we never had the money to go on all the holidays I promised you as a little girl…" Karen stopped, feeling the threat of tears bubble out of nowhere.

"Mum, no, don't start crying or I'll start too…!"

"Sorry, sorry." Karen cleared her throat, back in control. "Once you go to university, you'll be too busy with your course and your exams. Once you graduate, you'll be getting a job. Won't you?"

"Of course!" Modesty was insulted.

"You're old enough to go out and see a bit of the world, Modesty…" Karen was abruptly cut off by Art yelling for her from the kitchen. Karen looked helplessly back at her daughter.

"It's fine, mum, go."

Karen paused on her way out. "Think about it, Mozzie. You never know, it could really help you out. You know, with the stories."

The stories. That one scant, ineffective phrase circled Modesty's head long after her mother disappeared from her doorframe. Time and time again her mother demonstrated that she didn't completely understand her. Couldn't she see this was about so much more than simple stories?

Modesty crossed to the window and looked out into the garden. Her eyes desperately sought something, anything that she could write about, something that could even just spark the beginning of a grand new project.

Nothing.

Was taking off for a few weeks, nothing but her and her Pokemon, really the answer to her problems? The travelling life was almost synonymous with some of her favourite authors after all. And the sights and sounds and smells of Castelia City were becoming stagnant.

She cast her mind's eye out to the world that lay beyond Castelia. She had left the city before, of course she had, to visit relatives of her father when she was young and the occasional school trip to Santalune City when she was in her early teens. But that was just a city like any others. Nothing any different than what she already knew.

But a Pokemon journey? Was that really necessary? Pokemon journeys were for kids. Young, impressionable, eager kids. Kids who had a whole lifetime of "what ifs" and "maybes" to cash in, not people on the cusp of adulthood who had spent the last few years carving out a different path.

She liked Pokemon as much as everybody else. Poppy was a present for her tenth birthday, in-keeping with tradition, her mother had admitted. But Poppy was a gesture of goodwill. Her mother had just married Art and Gideon was a few weeks old. Their house, which Modesty had felt so empty and barren since her father had left, suddenly felt bloated and noisy. Busier than one of Lumiose City's main streets. Yet she had never felt more alone. Poppy had changed that. And it was the first good decision her mother had made in years.

Her other two Pokemon had come to her almost accidentally, almost in time with the arrival of her two siblings.

An idea suddenly pushed its way into her head. Almost on instinct she grabbed her notebook and wrote, in drawling italics

"Character (male? Female?) has many siblings; compensates each sibling arrival with new Pokemon."

She remembered the words she had thought of earlier and the pen moved as if it had a mind of its own.

"Young, eager, impressionable. Takes Pokemon journey to get away from hectic family life."

It was something. She doodled a few hearts and flowers, trying to grab onto a few more threads of ideas.

There was a saying among writers which was "to write about what you know". Modesty had doubted it, going as far to completely rubbish in her early writing career. She had imagination in abundance and more creativity in her seventeen years than some people had in their whole lives. She didn't need to write about boring everyday stuff. She could write about fantasy worlds and sci-fi settings, princesses and princes, monsters and aliens, anything she wanted.

That was what she had relied on for years. And her work, although technically sound, always seemed to lack that little bit of authenticity.

She had a germ of an idea, but it was heavily dependent on things she had little experience with. She couldn't fake a Pokemon journey. She'd made up space stations and men who lived on the moon and spirits in another world but the relatively mundane task of describing a Pokemon journey seemed way beyond her reach. And if it was something so everyday, so well known to so many people, her inexperience would be glaring. Nobody would be impressed. Especially not the university selectors.

Anxiety muscled in and made itself a home in the pit of her stomach. Were they really going to be impressed by a story about a Pokemon journey? She would have to make it special, make it standout, make it touch on themes and motifs that would make an impact on the selectors. Because that was what literature was all about. At the end of the day, literature is supposed to make you feel something.

She left for her evening walk armed with pencil and notebook. She had scribbled more down over the course of the day, buzzwords and snippets, but nothing concrete. Reuben was there, as always, with Gadget kneeled at his feet. The sight of him was a comfortable return to routine in a time when she felt very mixed up and unsure of herself.

"You're here again, huh?" she took a seat, careful to give the boy a bit of space.

"I am always here at this time."

Modesty nodded. There were things she wanted to say, things she wanted to ask, but the words dissipated like breath on a cold day. She sunk her shoulders against the bench and looked up at the darkness encroaching on the evening sky.

"Are you looking for the man in the moon?"

Modesty chuckled. "I thought you said you didn't believe in a man who lived on the moon."

"I don't but Mother says we should be tolerant of people who believe different things, even when they're wrong."

"….right." Modesty pushed herself back up. "Look, Reuben. I just wanted to apologise for not coming by the past few days. I've been really busy. And I also wanted to say thank you for everything the other day. With those boys and those Pokemon."

"Those boys were scary but they were weak. Gadget is very strong."

"Yeah, he really is. My Pokemon… aren't so much."

"Why not?"

"I never really trained them much."

It was a truth she absolutely did not want to own up to. Her Pokemon were pitifully trained. If she was going to walk the path of a Pokemon trainer as research, she couldn't cop out by taking trains and buses from city to city. She would have to walk, travel along roads that had supported thousands of Pokemon trainers over the years, far from the safety of public transport. There would be other trainers thirsting for battle and experience, and if the local news was to be believed, poachers and rogues and criminals waiting around every corner.

"Listen," she cleared her throat. "Reuben, do you think you could… teach me?"

"Teach you what?"

"How to train Pokemon."

"Why?"

"No reason."

Reuben was very quiet for a few minutes. "Then you need to battle me."

Modesty's heart plummeted to somewhere in her stomach. She'd misheard. Of course she'd misheard. "Reuben… what the hell did you just say?"

"You need to battle me."

"I asked you to train me! Not battle me!" she protested.

"I cannot tell you what you need to do if I do not know what you already can do."

She wanted to dispute him, weasel out of the situation she had inadvertently caused. Words failed her – and not for the first time today. Drooping her head to her chest, she resigned herself.

"D-do you have three Pokemon?" she mumbled.

"No. But I won't need them."

"What? Why not?"

"Because your three Pokemon are not enough to beat Gadget."

"Cocky little shit." Modesty muttered under her breath. She pulled her first Pokeball out and rolled its coolness over and over again in her hands. Her breath came in hitches. When was the last time she had done this properly? She hadn't even landed a single hit against the boys from yesterday, and even then, it was the first time in years she had been even close to a proper battle. Sweat pricked at her hairline.

"Let's go, Gadget."

Reuben was insufferably calm. Impossible to read. Modesty released Poppy the Dedenne from her Pokeball.

"Modesty, are you ready?"

She wanted to say no. Instead, she nodded. "Yes, I suppose—"

Gadget struck before Modesty could even finish her sentence.


End file.
